


for shelter

by mildlydiscouraging



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, In Medias Res, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Prompt Fill, Rain, attempted drowning, mostly comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlydiscouraging/pseuds/mildlydiscouraging
Summary: Before the panic and the frantic scrubbing of his memory for something new of any worth, Sherlock takes a deep breath. It's only when he stops his inhale/exhale for a moment that he remembers. John.





	for shelter

**Author's Note:**

> [masterserris asked](http://moonfullofstars.tumblr.com/post/162367398908/): sherlock+watson for "guardian"  
>  send me a "guardian" and i'll write a drabble about one character swearing to always keep the other safe

Sherlock doesn't quite remember everything that happened, which is disconcerting to say the least.

There was the sidewalk, then darkness, the back of a van (west for two minutes, a right, a left, another left, north for two blocks, east for three); then the blindfold, a room (high ceilings, fish and bleach smells, floor slightly slippery, drainage tunnel near the river), and echoing voices; then darkness again. Too anyone else, an unprecedented wealth of information. To him, nothing.

Before the panic and the frantic scrubbing of his memory for something new of any worth, Sherlock takes a deep breath. It's only when he stops his inhale/exhale for a moment that he remembers. John.

Another sigh from someone else and then the tilt of someone else's head leaning back against Sherlock's own.

"So how are we getting out of here?" He asks.

Sherlock laughs for all of two seconds, not quite close to one wet enough to give away the almost tears. It's the little victories.

"Honestly? I don't know," he says.

"Right, but you know where we are at least?" A chair scrapes back half a centimeter and Sherlock's fingers brush the plastic ties keeping John's hands behind his back also. "Or who took us, or something like that that can help us get out of here?"

"Not really."

The chair grates against the floor again (metal?plastic,scratchedplastic,stratchedplasticoncheapwoodsplintering,silence,waterwaves,breathingJohnJohn), this time to the right, and Sherlock leans his head as far down and forward as he can. The hair that unsticks from his forehead drips onto the floor, though he doesn't remember getting wet. Judging from the time it takes the water to reach the floor his chair is no more than two inches from the edge of a four inch thick pallet, which means—

"You're joking, right?" John's voice takes on that anxious edge it does when he's itching to do something, anything, and completely derails Sherlock's thought process. The chair scraping continues with renewed ardor until there is a thunk and the vacuum behind Sherlock gets a little wider as John swears.

"Wooden pallet, trying to think," Sherlock replies, although it's only half true. While most of his brain _is_ focused on the sudden new information, there's a very small, very _vocal_ part dedicated to shouting all John-related and largely irrelevant facts of the current situation. Sherlock listens for the sounds of tires overhead and only hear's John small groans and swearing. He tries to focus on figuring out what time it was when they disappeared and how much time has past since and can only think about the way he can feel the air move between their hands as John struggles against his bonds. It's incredibly distracting, and he tells John such.

The scoff he gets in return interferes with his concentration and he gives up momentarily.

"Stop moving, stop talking, stop thinking, stop breathing. I need to concentrate or else we won't be found for another two months when our bloated and soggy bodies wash up three counties downstream."

The noise stops for one blissful moment in which Sherlock postulates how far the distant chatter is and their potential reaction time.

"Fine."

"Not helping."

"No, I know, just..." John tries to scoot his chair again, backwards this time, although not too far, as he's still trapped between the slats of the pallet. "I hate not doing something."

Sherlock smiles and accidentally loosens the blindfold. He starts moving his face as much as possible and manages to slip the folded handkerchief down far enough to see, although it does get stuck on his nose. The room is largely as he suspected: dark orange brick, disorganized crates everywhere, arched ceiling, about fifty meters across that opens on one end to a dock in disrepair.

"I know you do. Now tighten my ties."

John shakes his head, caught on to what he's trying, but reaches back and up blindly for Sherlock's wrists anyway. "If you break your wrists I swear to God..."

"Let me _concentrate_ then."

Sherlock leans back as far as he can until John manages to catch two of his fingers under the plastic tie. The fingers of his other hand search for the end and pull it as the first two keep him steady and close enough to reach. In the interim time before the next step, while John fumbles to not drop the slick plastic, Sherlock lets himself feel. Even just the edges of John's fingertips are warming, spreading not like a fire but a tablespoon of hot honey. He hadn't noticed it until now but the wet has left him so cold.

"That's as tight as I can get it."

"Good enough."

Twisting to one side, Sherlock turns the plastic loop around his wrists, gets them above the edge of the chair back, and brings them down once, twice, until the plastic breaks. As soon as his hands are free, he pulls the blindfold off completely and leaps off the chair.

"My turn?"

"In a minute."

"Oh come on..."

Treading lightly, Sherlock picks around the boxes until he is at the mouth of the room. The air is thick with the marshy taste of stagnant water. Around the corner he can hear voices and boxes clattering further down the dock as rain mists down around them. A quick look confirms at least three people, probably more in the adjacent room.

"Sherlock."

John's whisper is closer to pissed off than Sherlock had bet on and he quickly returns to free him. Once John is up and rubbing his wrists, Sherlock goes back to his look out. The thugs are loading crates onto a small boat Sherlock thinks he could probably steer long enough to get them away, although John might—

"Hey!"

One of the smugglers points from the far end of the dock and Sherlock ducks back into the room, but he knows it's already too late. Footsteps race down the wood as John tries to pry open some of the crates and Sherlock tries to think of a way out.

What happens next is quick. Two of the kidnappers round the corner. John knocks one of them out with the crowbar he found. The remaining one hits back. Sherlock gets behind them, but the sound of the scuffle has alerted the others. Shouting. At least two pull a gun. John gets one of them, that's good, gets one in the knee. Sherlock chokes out one, kicks another into a stack of crates. So far so good.

He stops for just a second, to breathe, to reorient himself. That's what it happens.

"Sherl—mmfph!"

The sound of thrashing water is a cold electric shock. Sherlock spins around, one corner of his coat catching on a splintered crate, and he feels cold all over again.

One of the thugs, the last one standing, has John pinned to the dock, face down with his head in the water, almost invisible in the night aside from the moon-and-city-lights glinting off the water being thrown into the air.

Outside the room everything is slick with the continued cold mist, and Sherlock slips on the wet wood as he runs forward. The woman holding down John looks up, her knees still digging into his legs. Sherlock kicks her face but still she stays up, starting to pull a gun before Sherlock kicks at that too.

This time it works, although not exactly as he'd hoped. She gives up the gun and instead focuses her energy on dumping John into the river and heading for the door. To do so she has to get past Sherlock, and although she tries to get as wide a berth as she can, he trips her and throws her back into the wall next to one of her unconscious associates. She gets up again, but not before he has his grip on the top of the nearest pile and tips it over onto her, crushing her legs and slamming her head back into the wall again. She isn't even pinned fully before Sherlock spins away again.

"John," he says, leaning off the dock and frantically reaching for John's hands. "John!"

John is casually treading water, despite the blood smearing his forehead, the dock a little too high for him to reach on his own.

"I'm alright," he says as Sherlock grabs his forearms and pulls him up.

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response, instead gently smoothing back the wet hair to find where the blood is coming from. There's a gash on the front right side of his head that, now that he's no longer being dunked in and out of the water, is bleeding freely.

"I'm _alright_ ," John says, shivering as he folds up his arms. When Sherlock starts doing that fluttering thing he does when he's worried, though, John says nothing and doesn't pull away. The next shiver wracks his body and he leans further towards Sherlock, who finishes texting Lestrade with one hand and holds up John's shoulder with the other.

"It's really cold, right?" John asks. "That's not just me?"

Without saying a word Sherlock pulls off his coat and wraps it around his shoulders. The constant shivers don't lessen any, but they're more contained, and Sherlock rubs his hands up and down John's upper arms.

"Calling Lestrade, yeah?" John mumbles. Sherlock nods and fixes the coat. "Better catch the bastards..."

"Hopefully tonight is one of their rare good nights."

John scoffs and his head falls against Sherlock's shoulder. The rain is still a cold mist around them, more solid now and able to wash away the sticky blood at John's temple that has finally stopped flowing. Sherlock shakes his arm a little to make sure he doesn't fall asleep and John mumbles angrily, looking up.

"I saved your life for this?" He asks, squinting blearily at Sherlock. "Should've let her knock you out just to get some peace and quiet."

When Sherlock rolls his eyes, John laughs and leans back into him. "Thanks."

"It's my turn," Sherlock says. He puts one hand on the back of John's head. "I'm here. I've always got you."

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i was a superwholock in 2012, i can write gratuitous coat hurt/comfort if i want. i'm owed this. thanks as always to brit for enabling me, love u. i guess the title is from "[daydreamer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlIZaKdGV9s)" by adele, although i can't tell you how close i was to picking something from "i'll cover you" from rent lmao.
> 
> BET YOU GUYS THOUGHT THIS WAS GONNA BE SOME GARRIDEBS SHIT HUH. THINK AGAIN.
> 
> i'm doing prompts on tumblr! send me one of [these](http://moonfullofstars.tumblr.com/post/160253952183) and a fandom (or not, that's your perogative)
> 
> tumblr @[moonfullofstars](http://moonfullofstars.tumblr.com)


End file.
